The Weight Of Sadness

The Weight Of Sadness

Some of you may know this about me, but most of you do not. I love regular flavored Bubble Yum bubble gum (and not that sugar free shit); it’s very hard to find. But with this particular flavor and brand of bubble gum, I can blow bubbles inside of bubbles inside of bubbles. I can blow a bubble as big as my head and make smaller bubbles inside of the big one. The trick is not to let the biggest bubble, the main one, pop. If one of the smaller ones deflates, there is time to put the whole thing to rest before there is an entire mess all over my hair and face (that sounds really provocative but let that image go okay). When the smaller bubbles pop, there is time to avoid a complete bubble melt down. Bubbles inside of bubbles are very light.

The weight of sadness is as light as one huge regular flavored Bubble Yum bubble gum bubble and as complex as bubbles inside of bubbles, but way more dangerous. I have been walking around in bubbles of sadness and it is as light as air and just as invisible to outsiders. The weight of sadness is deceptive because it does not weigh me down, but insulates me.

For over a week sadness has engulfed me and I have been living inside of bubbles inside of bubbles inside of bubbles of sadness. I first noticed it one day I headed to work. It should have been a simple trip that involved me taking one of the #50 buses down to U street and then hopping on a 90 or 92 headed east to work and then walking a few blocks. However, I remember getting on one of the #50 buses heading south. I remember being irritated that as I left my apartment building I saw the fucking mailbox sans the lock.

mailbox with no lock

Before I stepped inside of the multiple bubbles of sadness, I remember being really pissed that the 50’s were running late and it was still rush hour. I know I did not let any of the men get on the bus first because there was a pregnant Latina and so I blocked the way until she got on the over crowded bus. I then remember that nobody gave up their fucking seat and I yelled, “Somebody needs to give up their seat there’s a pregnant woman here!” And several people jumped up (it turns out I am one of the crazies that yells on the bus—whatever that is another blog in and of itself).

Then time and space disappeared and I noticed I was on the Metro almost at the place where I go in search of my mental health. I knew something was wrong. I had lost an hour or more and so I got off the train. I stood still for a minute and looked around and then I got a text from my supervisor that politely asked, “Hey are you coming to work today?” Silently I thanked her for reminding where I was supposed to be.

I sent a text back that traffic had been bad and that I had gone too far on the train. I was wearing the lightweight of sadness and my mind got lost. When I arrived at work I sent an email to my therapist and then I went to talk to my co-worker/lead caretaker. She was upset and wanted to know why I hadn’t just stayed on the train and gone to find some mental health. I was like, “Because I have work to do. I have to keep it together.” And yet I wasn’t keeping it together, I had lost an hour or more to the weight of sadness and was trying to keep the big bubble from popping. “I’m okay,” I told her, but she admonished me and told me to talk to my therapist.

My therapist and I did do a phone session and then I slowly pulled myself from each bubble of sadness until I reached the big one and I did not let it pop. Instead, I allowed my soul to inhale them and buried them inside my stomach and moved on.

Then black Tuesday came and the big one almost popped. The small sadness bubbles popped one after the other as I waited at L&T court because some very bad poverty pimps have a hold of me. Then I stood in front of a judge who knew my “history” and she and the lawyer for the poverty pimps said some really untrue things about me and more bubbles inside of bubbles of sadness popped.

I was given a 10-day reprieve and it all was too much. My co-worker/lawyer/lead caretaker sat with me as we waited for the lawyer—that volunteered to represent me for that day only—who specializes in L&T law negotiated about me being able to  get into the building (remember the damn lost keys) with the lawyer for the poverty pimps. We waited and I knew that I was about to lose the big bubble of sadness, because all I could do was cry silent tears and then yell at my co-worker/lawyer/lead caretaker. Then we got the answer about how I would be able to access the building until Friday of this week.

I started heading to meet someone that is trying to help me fight these poverty pimps, and my co-worker/lawyer followed and then I got lost again in space and time and ended up with them at a table at a restaurant in China Town and had no memory of how I got there. I was eventually sent home in an Uber Cab (don’t judge me I don’t like them either but someone else was paying for this).

Later that night, I sent a weird email to my therapist. A few people claimed they called and I talked to them. I remember my best friend begging me to stay on the phone with her until I fell asleep. I remember that I wanted it all to end. My sadness bubble was as big as my head and there were no more bubbles inside of bubbles and I took a shower instead of a bath. The bath would have been the end.

I woke up the next day and I had kept the big bubble of sadness from exploding. I stayed on the couch all day long and then my boss came by with ham and a mango (she knew a little but not all and had promised me the ham two days before). I met her at her car and came back up and ate big chunks of ham and inhaled the smell of the mango and put it in my fruit bowl. I went to bed and woke up on Thursday and knew that I had stepped free of the weight of the sadness. I pretended I had on under my clothes, “…a vest with an S on my chest!” and I went and fought another group of poverty pimps successfully—not for myself because they have already done their damage to me—for others like me.

Sadness weighs nothing, but cuts sharply and deep. When you see me, look at me and see if I am there or if I am carrying the weightlessness of my sadness. In this way I know I will learn to live. Because, as I told someone recently, I can left swipe all the bullshit, but sometimes I need someone to hold my right hand.

Amme Voz


One thought on “The Weight Of Sadness

  1. The lightness and invisibility of the sadness bubbles reminds me of the Jewish mourning tradition of wearing a “wrent garment,” in modern times a small black ribbon pinned to your chest. You tear the ribbon, a symbol of your otherwise invisible broken heart, an invitation to comfort.


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